John Johnson

Ah, the sweet, sweet singing of the whip-poor-wills. Surely one of the most innocent, purest birdsongs one can know, plaintive and perfect in the clean morning light.

Unless, of course, you happen to live near the decayed New England village of Dunwich. Unless, of course, you have seen the mad fires blazing from the ancient stone circles atop Sentinel Mountain. Unless, of course, you remember the horrible events of seventy years ago and happen to be familiar with the name “Whately.”

Then the singing of whip-poor-wills isn’t so sweet and their patient waiting anything but innocent…